To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him Read Online Free PDF Page A

wouldn’t want to mess with it. Too much trouble for too little return, I say.
    Maybe I could catch up on all the movies I missed, though.
    I used to think that the best part would be hearing what people said about me after I was gone. Now I realize that it would only upset my ghostly self. I’d listen and then either think, “That’s not true! That’s not the way it was at all!” or else I’d think, “Yeah, that was true. But what does it matter now?”
    So I guess instead of wasting time as a ghost, I’ll just go straight to hell.
    That’s my plan.
    Just kidding. I don’t believe in any of that crap, anyway.

Raining
    I t was raining like crazy this morning after a long spell of no daytime rain at all. I don’t have an umbrella. I never have one. I never have had one. Don’t ask me why.
    My car was parked 40 or 50 feet from my door and the parking lot was developing a shallow moat. I decided to wait out the worst of it. Checked my email, updated my budget, and it was still raining like a big rain bucket from hell. I halfheartedly searched my apartment for a non-existent umbrella, even though I already knew what I would have to do. I just didn’t want to do it.
    My late grandmother’s translucent head floated over my left shoulder, crabbily telling me, “Just use a trash bag.”
    But I don’t want to use a trash bag, Grandma. I’d rather die. I’d rather wait at the bus stop for fifteen minutes, becoming absolutely drenched in the rain, earning the leers and scorn of the passersby, than be one of those kids who shows up to school wearing black Hefty bags with three holes torn for their arms and head. My friends and me make fun of those kids, Grandma. We’re poor bur we’re not nerds. I must retain my soggy pride.
    I considered just calling in sick. But no.
    Why didn’t my family just buy me an umbrella? Why was every little convenience some extravagant conceit that only “those bolillos” had?
    Or why didn’t I just buy an umbrella with my summer job money, instead of spending it all on thrift store clothing, pizza, and records?
    Teeth gritted, legs dragging, fists clenched, I walked to the pantry to get a glowing white Glad kitchen bag with festive red drawstring. I would just hold it above my head and walk very quickly, I decided. My grandma watched me and rolled her eyes.
    Why haven’t I bought myself an umbrella by now? What’s my excuse? I have a nice car/job/apartment and enough money in the bank to get a big striped umbrella with a wooden duck head for the handle. Not to brag, but I have enough money to get two.
    I listened to the hard wet drumming and knew that merely holding the bag above my head wouldn’t be enough. Sadly, I began to slit the bag down one of its sides, making a 13-gallon plastic tent. By the time I sawed through the resistant drawstring with my keys, I was giggling a tiny bit hysterically, imagining the impression I’d make on any neighbor passing by.
    My grandma glares sternly, ghostly arms materializing to cross at her chest, as I carefully drape the pointed little tarp over my head and shoulders. It floats weightless around me, my pretty sweater, my silver earrings, my make-upped eyes.
    I’m not a poor kid. I’m a fine lady in a white mantilla. I’m a beautiful industrial bride.
    My grandma makes the tsk noise, probably, but I don’t hear. I totter quickly through the lot, jump over the long puddle to my silver Nissan carriage. Throw down my costume on the cement before cocooning into my chariot and flying happily away.
    I don’t know if my grandma’s ghost dissipated back into limbo, or if she had to cool her heels in the foyer until the rain died down. I don’t know why she doesn’t float over to the mall or the movies instead of coming over to criticize me all the time.
    When it rains, I always tearfully vow to buy myself an umbrella. When the sun comes out again, I think of the future instead.

Love and Animals

Carnival Macho
    S he wants to go to the